Dog Leap Stairs

By Barbara Scott Emmett

Newcastle 1955

Monica haunts the quayside picking up men of a certain age.
Then one of them is found dead.
Since nobody knows what she does at night, she can't be in the frame for the murder.
Can she?

At her lowest point, she meets Bobby Wilson, an ordinary lad, handsome in his way.
But is this the right time to fall in love?

As the oily Tyne flows past the wharfs and under the iconic bridge, middle-aged men are being targeted by a vicious killer. Monica Brown, damaged, abused, just happens to be in the area - just happens to be excited by the murders.

Dog Leap Stairs is a blend of psychological realism and crime; dark, claustrophobic and atmospheric, it is both a portrait of Tyneside in the 1950s and an account of one woman's struggle against her true nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Scott Emmett
• Release date: May 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201298937

Barbara Scott Emmett

Barbara Scott Emmett has been writing for a number of years. She has had several short stories and one novel published traditionally and several ebooks published by digital publishers Pentalpha Publishing Edinburgh.Please leave a review of any book you read - we do like to know what readers think.

Book preview

Chapter One

Dean Street. Late Saturday night. Early Sunday really. Dark and misty and deserted. I’m waiting for the right one to come along. The right mark. Two have passed in the last hour or so—but neither were right. Too young. Not that I can’t reel the young ones in as well. I have no trouble with that. Youth is not my target, though. No. Tonight, I have other interests to pursue.

I’ve always known I was beautiful. My mother told me so when she dandled me on her knee. She told me again as I grew—every new frock, every photograph, every time I sang to entertain her friends. Men friends, usually, mostly. All Mother’s—Manda’s—friends delighted in me.  Her soirées were where I shone. Of course, I got called Shirley Temple—which I hated. That curly-haired brat was at the height of her fame then and Mother thought I could be the British version—but the east end of Newcastle wasn’t Hollywood. Opportunity didn’t knock.

Still, Mother knew I was an earner—tips and presents frequently came my way. The half-crowns and two bob bits went straight into Mother’s purse but she let me keep the dolls and teddy bears and there were plenty of them. I was the perfect child. Everyone’s blue-eyed girl. A silver-haired angel.

That’s how I know I can have any man I want. A crook of my finger and they’ll come running, eager for my services. It’s a lonely wait, here in the dark, breathing in the dank odour that drifts up from the Tyne, waiting for the perfect match. I walk along the Side, pausing every now and then, standing in the shadowy doorways.

I see him under the Tyne Bridge, appearing out of the fog—long overcoat, felt hat, shoulders hunched. Fuzzy yellow gaslight picks him out as he passes under the street lamp, coming towards me. Middle-aged, soft, a little haunted around the eyes. Looking for something. Something like me, though he’d not expect to get it. Not unless he paid. In the end, they all pay. One way or another.

He startles when he sees me, relaxes when I give him my look—eyelashes lowered for a second, then an upward glance from under them. Shy, coy, but inviting. He accepts the invitation, steps nearer. I bring a Craven ‘A’ up to my lips. It’s corny, but it always works. He rummages for his lighter, steps close, flicks it under the tip of my cigarette and in the brief flare I see his face. I can see the wanting in him, feel the desire radiate from his trembling hand. He’s an inch or two taller than me—five eleven maybe—but his hat makes him a good six foot. They don’t like it when I tower over them—except the odd one who gets a thrill from it. I let my plastic mac fall open, so he can see my décolletage.

‘Are you free?’ he says.

I smile. ‘Never free, pet, but reasonable.’

He quirks his lip as our eyes meet and we share the joke. Another old one, but it breaks the ice. His glance flickers to the alleyway behind me and I take his arm.

When I wake, I’m still fully clothed—rumpled and sweaty like my bed. A weak April sun penetrates the thin curtains. Children’s cries pierce the morning. My morning. My sleep. Irritated, I turn over, pulling the covers with me. It’s no use though, my peace is shattered. It’s Sunday, the back lane is full of kids shrieking. That won’t cease until their dinners are ready—hours hence.  The sheet has wrapped itself around me and the blankets have gone their separate ways. I can smell my own sweat—metallic with adrenaline, dried now and turning to musk. God knows what time I got in—five? Six? Where did I go—after? Maybe it’s best I don’t know. I’m tired and uncomfortable and I need a bath.

The geyser roars and the pipes thump and rattle. The water is brown when it spouts into the iron bathtub. At least Aunt Millicent had the decency to have the bathroom put in where the old scullery used to be. No tin baths in front of the fire for me. Pity she didn’t have the lavatory brought inside as well. Too much expense for her, maybe. Or too much trouble.

The cold metal chills my skin as I slide down into the water. Steam condenses on the cracked mirror and on the window, and forms clouds above the bath. I relive the memory of him coming out of the mist. He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last. It takes so much out of me but it has to be done. I need to take a break now, though. I’m exhausted.

Exhausted, yet tight as an overwound clock. I swipe a clear patch across the shaving mirror beside the bath. Yes, I’m still beautiful but the tiredness is showing beneath my eyes. Maybe a rum would help. To relax me, let me get back to sleep for a while. Charlie got me into that. Tried to get me to drink it with blackcurrant cordial, or that ghastly Coca-Cola stuff. I prefer it as it comes—neat. A tot knocked back, swift and effective. Medicinal really. I don’t need alcohol but it serves a purpose.

When I’m out and dry, and wrapped in my robe, I reconsider. The bottle is in my hand but it’s only ten thirty in the morning. I don’t want to go down that road. I take a couple of aspirins instead and lie on the couch. I need more sleep but can’t face the disordered bed. Wrapping Aunt Mill’s blanket around me, I settle back. The wool is scratchy and the colours too bright. The old witch spends her time knitting and crocheting these days—not that she needs homespun rubbish. She’s not short of a bob or two. Cash, savings, war bonds—and God knows what else she’s got squirreled away. Old skinflint. Tried to get me to take up knitting. As if I could be bothered with that. Still got the needles though.

Kept me on a tight leash in my childhood, did Aunt Mill, but she won’t do it now. I won’t dance to her tune, money or not. She thinks I should be forever grateful. For what? Yes, she took me in after Mother... but so what? She’s Manda’s sister—family—it was her duty. It may seem strange but I’m all for family. It’s important, blood being thicker and all that. Maybe one day I’ll have a family of my own. Better get a move on, though. I’m still beautiful but it won’t last forever.

Around teatime, I wake again. Fourish. As I come to on the couch, I realise I’m famished. When did I last eat? Yesterday sometime. Early. Hours before I went out. I don’t work well on a full stomach. I need to feel the hunger. Feel something of what they feel.

There’s food in the pantry—sliced ham, a few tomatoes—and a heel of bread in the bread bin. My mother’s bread bin—chipped cream enamel—that somehow survived the bomb. I was eight when the war started and still my mother’s pet. So pretty. When it ended, I was a ‘teenager’, as the current term has it, and confined to the ugliness of Aunt Mill’s gloomy house in Benton. It’s still a creepy place, more so, now there’s only her in it, filled with dark furniture and a foreboding atmosphere. I’ll inherit it one day and when I do it’ll be white paint everywhere and this new Swedish furniture you see in the magazines. Lightness and air to combat the foggy darkness of the nights. I’m hoping that day won’t be too far off—that’s why I’ve not done much to my own place—this two-room Tyneside flat given to me by Aunt Millicent—it’s not worth the effort.

At least I have the downstairs flat, so I don’t have far to go to the outhouse. Stinking place but I have it to myself. Not much privacy if one of the other lot wants to use theirs right next to it, though. The yard itself is shared with the bitch upstairs and her brood. He’s not so bad—gives me the eye whenever our paths cross. I smile. I’m polite. They think I’m a divorcée (injured party) and I don’t disabuse them of that belief. It’s a thrill for him, and something for her to feel superior about. Let them have their gossip behind their hands. Let them discuss me in awed tones. Why should I care?

I eat my sandwich quickly, with a cup of tea. Still too early for the rum. I’m a homebody at heart. Some might say a cheap date—but that’s before they know me. I can sparkle when I want to. Put on the airs and graces. Hold my head high with the best of them. I need new clothes though. Time to step out of the dark for a while and into the light. Maybe I should get myself a sugar daddy. Somebody undemanding. Somebody who can’t believe his luck. But to find one I need to get out and about—and for that I need clothes to impress. And for that I need—well, you get the idea. Vicious circle.

As I’m rinsing my cup and plate—I’m no slattern—there’s a knock at the door. Who calls at five on a Sunday? I don’t do tea parties. I hesitate before answering, nerves jangling. Who wants me? It couldn’t be... Anyway, I’m still in my dressing gown. The knock comes again, louder, more insistent. I stand well back in the front room, near the kitchen door, as a face appears at the window. Hands either side of the eyes, it peers into the dim room. My breath expels all at once. Janice.

She hasn’t seen me but I cross the room anyway and step into the tiny hall. Pulling the front door open, I force a smile—wide and deep. Look how pleased I am to see my best friend. My only friend.

‘Jan!’ I’m all what-a-lovely-surprise and I-couldn’t-be-more-pleased.

She takes in my dressing gown. ‘Jesus, Mon, are you just up?’

‘Course not. Had a lazy afternoon bath.’ I pull the door wider. ‘Lazy Sunday all round. Come on in.’

The place is tidy. It always is. Sparse, lacking in luxury, but neat.

‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything,’ she says with a sly glance towards the bedroom door. She’d be horrified if she discovered I was hiding a man in there but she likes to act worldly-wise.

‘No. Just having a cup of tea. I’ll put the kettle back on.’

She follows me into the kitchen—a cramped space with a three-ring gas cooker, a deep sink, and an old sideboard housing the dishes. The pantry cuts across the corner—the two outside walls help keep things cool. I add another spoonful of Ringtons to the pot and top it up. If she thinks she’s getting fresh, she can think again. Uninvited guests get what they’re given. And let’s face it—I rarely have any other kind.

‘I suppose we’re all entitled to be slobs on a Sunday, after our strenuous weekly toil,’ she says.

Janice imagines I work on the switchboard at a solicitor’s office. Can’t remember how she got that idea, but it suits me. She’s a secretary at the gas board, so conveniently busy through the day same as me (as she thinks). We meet for lunch occasionally. It’s a pain having to put on office clothes and make-up, and rush into the café as if I haven’t had all morning to get myself there. I don’t have to talk about my ‘work’ much because, being legal stuff, it’s confidential. I did once have a temporary job in a lawyers’ office—probably where Jan got the idea from—so I know enough of the terms to get by when necessary. My ‘boss’ does family law, so I won’t get caught out on anything to do with the criminal side of things. Definitely have to avoid that as Jan’s husband is a policeman. Makes me smile when I think about it.

‘Anyway, the reason I came over,’ she says, ‘is... well... we haven’t heard from you for a while. Wanted to check you were all right. Have you got over that cold?’

That was the excuse I used, week before last or whenever it was, when she wanted me to go to the pictures. Something sloppy, she said—a woman’s film that Keith didn’t want to see.

‘I’m fine now. Thanks for asking. Was the film any good?’ Oh, I can make normal conversation when I want to.

‘What, Love in the Afternoon? I didn’t go in the end. Our Jeannie wasn’t around either and, as I said, Keith wouldn’t be seen dead going to see something like that.’

Tough man, Keith. ‘Shame,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’ I take a sip of tea to hide my smile. I know. I’m not a nice person. Give me credit for acknowledging that much.

‘We’ll have to meet for lunch again soon. Or you could come over. Keith was asking after you.’

‘Mmm. How is he?’

‘Fine—but—oh, have you heard? There was another one last night. He’s had to go in to work.’

‘Another one?’

‘Stabbing. Down by the quayside.’

Chapter Two

‘U p and under the chin ,’ Keith says, sucking in a strand of spaghetti. ‘Have to be pretty close to do it. Stabbing is such a personal crime.’

Saturday night at their new house. A ‘dinner party’, as Jan says.

Keith stares across the table at me. ‘Same M.O. as the others,’ he says. ‘Modus Operandi. Same method.’

I simper. Oh Keith, you’re so clever. I know what M.O. means—I’ve read Chandler and the rest.

Janice sighs and puts her fork down. ‘Can we not just eat in peace?’

Keith can’t stay off the subject of the murders, though. He enjoys being in the know. Makes him feel special, as if he’s higher up the chain than he actually is. He’s a Detective Sergeant—only a year or two out of uniform. To hear him talk, you’d think he was in charge of the investigation.

‘We’ll get him, though.’ Keith lifts his dark eyebrows. ‘Oh aye. He’ll make a mistake, you’ll see.’ He pushes his plate away.

‘Did he make a mistake this time,’ I ask, eyes wide.

‘Nah. He’s been clever.’

‘Has he ever made a mistake?’

‘Doesn’t look like it. Not so far, anyway.’

‘Then he’ll have to do it again,’ I say, dabbing my lips, ‘so he can leave some clues. So you can catch him. Oh dear, that means some other poor man is going to have to die.’

‘Jesus, Mon,’ Janice chips in, ‘don’t be so morbid.’

Keith has the decency to look abashed. ‘Well... you know... I mean...’ He tries to shrug it off. ‘We might find something yet. It’s early days. We’re still on the case.’

‘Let’s hope you come up with some evidence before he does it again, then,’ I say, toying with my wineglass.

‘We will.’ Keith’s mouth twists.

‘Can we talk about something else? Please?’ Janice piles the plates up. I stand up to help. ‘Sit down, I’ll do it. You’re the guest,’ she says.

If he’d asked me to sit down, I might have taken notice but he just sprawls there—lord of all he surveys. Since he’s not going to help, I pick up two serving dishes—the Midwinter range, I note, wedding presents no doubt—and follow Jan into the kitchen. They have a new house—all clean and freshly plastered and painted. Not to my taste. Too boxy and the same as every other one on the estate. Starter homes for young professional couples. Their furniture is a mishmash of old stuff their parents have lumbered them with and new space-age lamps and little tables. The old stuff is heavy and brown and boring, and the new stuff is lightweight and brightly coloured. Plastic—the wonder material of the age.

‘I wish he wouldn’t go on about it,’ Jan says, as she dumps the plates into soapy water. ‘Turns my stomach.’

‘It’s certainly chilling.’ I pick up a tea towel—Irish Linen—another wedding present, I expect. ‘To know there’s someone like that around. You could pass them on the street and not even know it.’

‘Stop it, Mon!’

‘Keith probably shouldn’t be talking about it anyway,’ I say.

‘No, he shouldn’t. Don’t say anything to anyone else. It could get him into trouble.’

‘Who would I tell tales to?’ I give her a nudge. ‘You know me—Miss Lonely.’

‘Oh really?’ Jan is arch. ‘I wouldn’t know who you see or what you get up to. Miss Secretive.’

Smiling, I pick up the soapy plate she’s just put on the dish rack. She doesn’t rinse, Jan. ‘Nothing to tell.’

‘Oh, I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’ Janice isn’t really nosy—that’s why I tolerate her. She’s like me in that respect. Couldn’t care less what other people do. She likes to pretend she’s all for gossip but she soon loses interest. Too self-centred. I’ve known her since school—we were both at Heaton High—both a little odd and awkward. Most of the other girls hated me. I was too pretty when they were going through the spots and blackheads stage. Jan wasn’t bad looking—dark to my fair. The perfect foil.

When we left school, I tried to shake her off—several times—but for some reason she stuck around. We went through the falling in love with crooners stage together—Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Dean Martin. Janice’s family had a gramophone so I spent a fair bit of time at her house. Aunt Mill didn’t run to such frivolities. She’d turn the wireless on for the news or the Third Programme—likes to think of herself as cultured—listening to Beethoven and Brahms and taking an interest in current affairs. That’s part of the reason I hung around Janice’s house. Her parents were relaxed and friendly and Jan and Jeannie always had the latest records and new clothes. I had to wear the saggy jumpers Aunt Mill knitted, and her cut-down old skirts. Apart from my school uniform, my wardrobe contained only one or two changes of clothes at any one time. I missed my mother. Still do. Manda would have dressed me as I ought to have been dressed—pretty cotton frocks in summer and red velvet in the winter. I dreamt of such clothes. Longed for them. Janice and Jeannie even wore shorts in the summer—Aunt Mill was horrified. Women in trousers scandalize her still.

I glance at Janice. She’s wearing slacks now—grey, and a green sweater embroidered with parrots, one on each shoulder. She’s sort of stylish, I have to give her that, if a little loud in her taste. My navy and white shirt-waister is understated—I prefer classy clothes, a classic style. If I’m Grace Kelly, Jan’s Elizabeth Taylor—shorter and more rounded than I am. She’ll run to fat as she ages—probably as soon as she starts having the brats Keith wants.

‘You’re quiet,’ she says.

‘Aren’t I always?’

‘More than usual. Everything okay?’

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘How’s work?’

‘Work? Oh, same as usual. How’s yours?’

‘Fine. Great, in fact. I’m getting promoted. They’re making me supervisor.’

I can’t help the twinge of envy that shoots through me. Not that I’d want to work in a stupid office, with gormless people, day in day out. Not for me. I prefer a bit of excitement in my life. And my days to myself, reading, thinking. ‘That’s wonderful. Congratulations.’ I almost gush with warmth. ‘So, you’re not thinking of—you know—just yet?’ I cast an eye at her abdomen.

‘Oh God no. Not for a year or two.’

‘Leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?’

‘I’m only twenty-four—same as you, madam. Another year won’t hurt.’ She puts her tongue out at me. ‘Anyway, we agreed—Keith and me—that we’d get our careers going first. And have a bit of fun.’

‘Fun, eh?’ I give her a knowing look.

‘Yes, fun. You know how much we’ve enjoyed going abroad these last couple of years.’

I know how much they’ve enjoyed inflicting the photographs on everyone.

‘Spain and Italy,’ Jan goes on. ‘Won’t be able to do that once the babies come along.’ She shrugs the topic off with a smile. ‘We’re a modern couple.’

I get the feeling she’d put off childbearing indefinitely, but I can’t see Cro-Magnon Keith agreeing to that. Modern couple? He’d tie her to the sink by her apron strings if he could. And he will. I’m surprised he’s let her get away with it this long. I suppose they must need both wages to pay the mortgage and support the middle-class lifestyle they aspire to. Keith runs a car and they have a television. Up and coming young marrieds. They even have a telephone. Once I get Aunt Mill’s place, I’ll have all those things too—assuming I want them.

‘Amazed you’ve avoided it so far,’ I say. ‘How’ve you managed that?’

‘Oh, you know... Marie Stopes.’ She casts a glance over her shoulder to the kitchen door. Could it be Keithy doesn’t know about her trips to Family Planning? I thought the husband had to be involved.

‘How do you manage?’ she says. ‘I mean... do you... you know... Have you ever?’

‘Me?’ I moue like a coquette. ‘I’m a good girl, I am.’ Charlie would be rolling around laughing.

‘Well, if you ever need advice...  When the right man comes